Page 12 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twelve

May 19, 1812

D arcy’s room at Netherfield was suffocating.

He had spent the better part of the morning pacing, hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the window, then back at the desk, then at the neatly folded correspondence he had prepared for London. The Prince’s deadline loomed ever closer, and he had done nothing.

No new leads. No progress. No evidence beyond the word of a woman he had assumed saw nothing of consequence.

He would leave for London within the hour. He had convinced Bingley that he had business with the Home Office, though that had only prompted a string of questions about when he would return. Darcy had not answered. The truth was, he did not know.

Nor did he know what he expected to find.

He exhaled sharply and pressed his palms against the desk, bowing his head for a brief moment, forcing himself to think. A week had passed since Perceval fell, since the country was thrown into disarray, since Darcy had become entangled in this wretched affair. A week.

And now, the man convicted for the crime was dead. Executed yesterday.

The news had spread like wildfire through the town. Meryton was buzzing with the details, the certainty of Bellingham’s guilt, the finality of justice being served. The people were content to close the matter.

Darcy, however, was not.

The true murderer remained free. The Prince had given him a task, and he had nothing—nothing but the sinking realization that time was slipping away, and the illusion of safety in Hertfordshire was precisely that.

An illusion.

He needed to return to London. He had wasted too many days already. His plan had been simple—take breakfast, settle his affairs with Bingley, and be on his way before noon.

He had not accounted for distractions.

Darcy reached for his coat, prepared to take his leave, when he heard the unmistakable music of female voices from downstairs. A rising and falling of pleasantries, the occasional exclamation—too distant to make out the words, but distinct enough to mark them as visitors.

His brow furrowed. It was morning, the customary hour for calls. But that should not concern him in any way. He planned to leave quietly—he had already made his intentions known.

A sharp rap on the door interrupted that plan.

Before Darcy could respond, the door cracked open and Bingley poked his head inside, beaming in that boyishly eager way that made it impossible to predict whether he was about to say something innocuous or entirely exasperating.

“Darcy! There you are—still here. You are in luck, man.”

“Am I?”

“Indeed! You see, the Bennets have come to call.” Bingley stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a casual flick of his hand. “I know you were planning to leave today,” he continued, “but I cannot in good conscience let you slip away like some fugitive before you have greeted them.” His grin widened. “Come, be sociable.”

Darcy crossed his arms. “I fail to see why my presence is required.”

Bingley waved a hand. “Oh, come now. It is only polite. Besides, you and Mr. Bennet get on famously—you can speak of all your dreadful books and strategy games while the ladies chatter about ribbons and bonnets.”

Darcy arched a brow.

Bingley laughed. “Very well, I take it back. Miss Elizabeth, at least, is rather sharp in conversation. You should quite enjoy yourself.”

Darcy schooled his features into neutrality, refusing to rise to whatever bait Bingley was dangling before him.

Bingley, naturally, noticed. His expression turned shrewd. “You must come, Darcy. Caroline will take it as a personal triumph if you hide in here all morning.”

That, at least, gave him pause.

Bingley was already seizing the moment, stepping aside and gesturing toward the hall. “Come along, man. It is only a few minutes of pleasantries. Then you can run off to London to your heart’s content.”

Darcy clenched his jaw. It was foolish to risk unnecessary attention by being seen speaking with Elizabeth. And yet—refusing outright would raise questions. And it was just a morning call.

A few minutes of pleasantries.

Nothing more.

He straightened his coat and strode past Bingley into the hall.

By the time Darcy entered the drawing room alongside Bingley, the Bennet women had already settled. The Bingley sisters were seated with stiff politeness, their smiles brittle as they exchanged the customary pleasantries with their guests.

Darcy barely registered any of it.

Because Elizabeth was there.

She was seated near Jane Bennet, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture composed like she was sitting in her father’s drawing room. When she glanced up, her gaze brushed his—just briefly, just enough.

She rose with the others as decorum dictated, offering a graceful curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.” But there was something in the way she carried herself—too deliberate, too measured. A slight stiffness in her posture, as though she were bracing for something. That in itself was a message to him.

He frowned. Darcy inclined his head, forcing himself to look away before he revealed anything he should not.

The call unfolded as it ought. Mrs. Bennet exclaimed—again—over Netherfield’s fine appointments. Caroline Bingley offered her usual false smiles. Bingley played the perfect host, offering refreshments and easy conversation.

Darcy moved to the far side of the room, hands clasped behind his back, determined to let the visit pass without complication.

Then Elizabeth shifted closer.

A flick of her wrist. A slip of paper.

She let it fall onto the small table beside him as she turned toward Jane Bennet, as though adjusting the folds of her gown.

Darcy squinted at it.

The motion had been fluid, practiced—he would not have noticed had he not been watching her so carefully.

His eyes flicked to the paper. The edges were smudged faintly with charcoal.

Elizabeth was still speaking to the eldest Bennet sister, her expression pleasant, her laughter ready. Not looking at him.

Darcy hesitated, then slowly, carefully, unfolded the paper.

A face stared back at him. Dark brows. Hollow cheeks. A cruel, assessing gaze.

Drawn in clean, deliberate strokes, the sketch was stark—impossible to ignore.

Was this… what he thought it was?

He glanced up at her, and she slid one eye in his direction. So… Elizabeth had seen his face. Not as a shadow in the chaos. Not as a half-formed figure lost in the crowd.

She had seen him.

Memorized him.

Darcy swallowed, his grip tightening around the edges of the page.

The visit concluded as all such visits did—polite words, curtsies exchanged, murmurs of farewell. The Bennet women rose, adjusting gloves and gathering their things.

Bingley, ever the courteous host, stepped forward. “Ladies, may I escort you to your carriage?”

A chorus of polite assent followed. The Bingley sisters remained behind, relieved, no doubt, to see the visit draw to a close.

Darcy hesitated only a moment before following.

The hallway was cooler than the drawing room, and the footsteps of their small group echoed against the polished floors. Elizabeth walked just ahead of him, her posture straight, composed. She had orchestrated this meeting—of that, he was certain. Just as surely as yesterday’s call had been his idea rather than Bingley’s.

Outside, the Bennet carriage waited. Mrs. Bennet, and then Jane Bennet accepted Bingley’s elbow to escort them down the steps to the drive. Kitty and Lydia were just behind, laughing over something.

Elizabeth lingered more slowly.

Darcy moved closer, lowering his voice. “Is this the man?”

She glanced at the page still clutched in his hand, then up at him. “Yes.”

The single word sent a chill down his spine.

Ahead of them, the groom opened the carriage door. Not much time…

“You saw him clearly,” he murmured. “You drew this last night—a week after the fact. Are you sure this is accurate?”

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together in confirmation.

Mrs. Bennet was already settling herself inside. The coachman had climbed into his seat. Darcy studied the sketch again, then turned his gaze back to her. “Why have you never mentioned that you saw his face this clearly?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “I told you what I saw. You never asked for more.”

“No, you told me you saw the assassination.”

“That is the same thing.”

Darcy exhaled sharply. “No, it is not. You saw him . You remember him perfectly, if this is a true rendering and not a product of your imagination.“ He tapped the sketch lightly. “This is not the work of someone with a vague recollection.”

A flicker of movement—Bingley now helping a second Bennet sister into the carriage, smiling as he bid the lady farewell.

Elizabeth flicked her gaze at him. “It is. Why do you sound so surprised, sir?”

“Because… I thought you… well, you are not a trained observer.”

Her brows drew together in some hurt. “Oh. You thought I was useless to you.”

“I…” Darcy exhaled sharply, biting back the rest of the regrettable sentiment.

I thought you were a foolish, reckless, spoiled heiress who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time and needed rescuing.

Because I did not realize—

He looked down at the sketch once more. At the crisp lines. The deliberate strokes. The undeniable skill.

Kitty Bennet was now stepping into the carriage, and the horses were beginning to stir impatiently.

“You are talented,” he said, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “Surprisingly so.”

Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard. “You sound astonished.”

“I suppose I am.”

“So? Will it be useful to you?”

The driver adjusted the reins, and Bingley was now handing the last Bennet sister in. The carriage was about to depart.

“Very much so,” he murmured, scanning the lines again. “I think you saw more than I realized.”

Darcy flicked his gaze toward the carriage, then back to Elizabeth. Their time was up.

Without another word, he stepped forward and opened the door, offering his hand.

She hesitated—just for a breath—before placing her fingers lightly in his. The touch was fleeting, gone as soon as she settled into the seat beside the others.

The door clicked shut. The driver gave a low call. And Darcy’s fingers still burned from hers.

E lizabeth had always thought of night as a time of quiet. A time when the world settled, when worries could be tucked away and left for the morning.

But not here.

At Longbourn, night was a cacophony of unfamiliarity.

Not the clatter from the streets like there would be in London. Not the voices of twenty maids finishing for the evening. No, in that way, night was quite peaceful.

The old house groaned as the evening chill settled in, floorboards cracked under unseen footsteps, and the restless murmurs of the wind pushed against the windowpanes. Somewhere down the corridor, Lydia’s muffled laughter drifted through the walls, followed by a burst of hushed giggles from Kitty. A door creaked, then shut with a dull thud.

Elizabeth pulled the coverlet higher over her shoulders. Sleep evaded her again tonight.

She missed London.

She missed the ease of familiarity—her father’s absentminded grumbles, Charlotte’s sharp wit, the routine of calling on friends, of reading by lamplight in a place where she belonged.

Here, she was an imposter.

A stranger playing a part in a house full of women who accepted her without question. They were kind—far kinder than they needed to be. Jane in particular. But that kindness only made her feel more like an interloper, a guest overstaying her welcome.

And yet… what choice did she have?

A soft sigh escaped her lips, barely audible beneath the sounds of the night.

She had wanted— needed —to get away from the stifling house, so she had offered to take Hill’s place in gathering the last of the linens from the line. The air had been crisp, the grass damp from the evening dew, and for a moment, it had been peaceful.

Until she noticed it.

A feeling. A prickle against the back of her neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched.

She had turned sharply, expecting to find a servant or one of the younger girls lingering behind her.

But the yard had been empty.

Nothing but moonlight on the damp grass, the flicker of candlelight from the windows, and the soft rustle of the trees.

Still, she had not lingered.

Now, she sat upright in bed, staring at the closed curtains.

It had been nothing. A flight of fancy. She was not used to country nights, to the sounds of the house settling or the unfamiliar emptiness of the fields beyond the garden. She was being foolish.

And yet—

Her fingers tightened in the coverlet.

Darcy had said she was safe. He had promised she was safe.

She forced a slow breath and willed herself to believe it.

But Darcy had left for London that very afternoon. And even Mr. Bennet, who was the only person in Hertfordshire who had any inkling she was not who she was supposed to be, had no idea of the truth of the matter.

As she lay back against the pillows, she could not shake the feeling that someone had been there. Watching. Waiting. Was it merely her imagination? The threads of a guilty conscience weaving together to torment her?

Or had she been recognized?

May 20, 1812

D arcy had been at this for hours.

His rented rooms at Albany were quiet, save for the faint crackle of the oil lamp and the steady scratch of his pen as he copied numbers from one ledger to another. Pages of figures, columns of names, payments listed under vague descriptions—it was all maddeningly opaque. The Home Office kept thorough records, but thorough did not mean transparent. Whoever had orchestrated this had been careful, using layers of intermediaries to obscure the movement of funds.

The ledgers stretched before him in neat, unbroken rows of ink, each name and figure meticulously recorded, each column an exercise in bureaucratic monotony. A web of numbers. Transactions. Financial trails that should have led somewhere. But instead, they looped endlessly into nothing.

Bellingham had been executed the day before yesterday, and his trial had done exactly what it was meant to do—close the case. The investigation had ceased the moment the noose tightened around the man’s neck. The authorities considered it over. Finished.

But someone had paid Bellingham. Provoked him, stoked his motives… likely blackmailed him, threatened his family, even, to make him kill the Prime Minister. That much, Darcy was certain of. And someone had gone to great lengths to cover it up.

A knock at the door pulled him from his work. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose before rising to answer.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, shrugging off his coat. “You look terrible.”

Darcy gave him a flat look and returned to his seat. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

“Of course not.” Fitzwilliam pulled up a chair, casting a glance over the spread of ledgers and loose papers. “But I might have expected it. Have you slept?”

Darcy did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he tapped the open ledger in front of him. “I need you to look at this.”

Fitzwilliam leaned in, eyes scanning the pages. After a moment, he frowned. “How did you get this? This is the government’s own treasury account.”

“It is,” Darcy said grimly. “And it is incomplete.”

Fitzwilliam’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”

Darcy flipped to another set of records, ones he had “borrowed”—perhaps less than legally—from a second department. “These are military expenditures. And these—” he gestured to another book, “—are payments made to known contractors. Now, compare the two.”

Fitzwilliam did so, his frown deepening. “These amounts do not match.”

“No, they do not,” Darcy confirmed. “Certain funds are marked as paid, but there is no corresponding recipient. The money is gone, but there is no record of who received it.”

Fitzwilliam let out a slow breath. “So it was diverted.”

“And it was done carefully. Not in large sums, but in small, regular increments over months—perhaps years.” Darcy tapped his finger against one of the entries. “It was routed through several hands before disappearing entirely.”

Fitzwilliam sat back, crossing his arms. “Someone inside the government was moving money into false accounts.”

“Or false ventures,” Darcy corrected. “Some of these payments were made under the pretense of ‘supply costs’—munitions, provisions for regiments, commissions for arms manufacturers. But the final ledgers do not match the purchases.”

Fitzwilliam nodded slowly, taking it all in. “You think any of this has to do with Perceval?”

“I do not believe in coincidences,” Darcy said darkly. “A man does not embezzle government funds for months on end and then, by sheer happenstance, the Prime Minister—the one man in the cabinet who might have discovered it—ends up assassinated.”

Fitzwilliam let out a low whistle. “That is a dangerous theory.”

“It is,” Darcy agreed.

Fitzwilliam exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand over his face. “You know, when I agreed to look into this with you, I was rather hoping it would be something simple. A man with a grudge, an unfortunate coincidence—something I could ignore in good conscience and go on about my life.”

Darcy arched a brow. “And yet you are here.”

Fitzwilliam huffed. “Yes, well. My conscience is a great nuisance.”

Darcy pushed another sheet toward him. “Then help me make sense of this.”

Fitzwilliam took up the page, his expression serious now. “And what of your witness? Have you written to… well, whoever it is you left in charge of her?”

Darcy hesitated—only briefly. “She is safe.”

Fitzwilliam gave him a look. “That was not what I asked.”

Darcy exhaled. “I will write tomorrow.”

Fitzwilliam shook his head but said nothing further.

For now, there was work to do.